OTAY MESA
MONDAY, 12:18 P.M.
“I DON’T LIKE THIS,” Franklin said.
“Nobody asked you to,” Grace said.
“I’m getting out of here. I’m a sitting duck!”
“You’ll be a dead one if you run.”
The tone of Grace’s voice made Franklin turn and look at his ex-wife. She had her back to the nearest camera. She was holding a gun.
It was pointed at him.
“You’re kidding,” Franklin said.
“You’re all that stands between Lane and death.” She flicked off the safety and took up slack on the trigger. “You gave him as a hostage to the Butcher of Tijuana. What makes you think you should live and Lane should die?”
“I never meant-”
“I don’t care what you meant,” she cut in ruthlessly. “I have to deal with reality, and reality is that you’re a money launderer to murderers, and a coward who put a boy on the firing line to save your own ass. I’d feel more compassion for a rabid dog, but I’d kill it just the same.”
Franklin looked at Grace’s eyes, the flat line of her mouth, and the darkness around her eyes from tension and lack of sleep.
She gestured slightly with the gun. “Sit on the floor behind those bags and stop whining. When Hector comes, don’t show yourself and don’t talk unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”
“You’re crazy.”
“My gun is quite sane.”
Without a word Franklin walked away from the only safe exit, across an expanse of cold concrete cut by circles of light and pools of black, and sank down in shadows behind burlap bags of rice.
Grace hid the gun behind her purse and faced the camera again.